


Bathtub

by AWomanOfLetters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Brooding, Dark, Feelings, Love, Mark of Cain, Revenge, vengeful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-23 22:46:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7482870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AWomanOfLetters/pseuds/AWomanOfLetters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's thoughts and feelings after Charlie's death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bathtub

**Written for a prompt on /r/fanfiction: death without dialogue. Coda to 10.21.**

She had _known_ the Stynes were after her.

Still, for some reason, she had scurried away from the warehouse, away from Cas's watchful eyes, away from Rowena's subtle digs. Searching for peace and quiet, a place to hack the codex, somewhere where she could immerse herself in her beloved computers.

She could have just gone to a coffee shop, filled with people. That had been her favorite type of haven, a place filled with the quiet background chatter of friends together, the clink of cups, the burble of frothing machines filling various dairy or non-dairy liquids with steam, the sound of cars going through the drive-through, the aroma of coffee beans freshly ground. For some reason, that atmosphere energized her, allowed her to concentrate.

It was her equivalent of his beloved dingy diners with their unassuming-looking homemade pies that burst into glorious flavors as soon as you took a bite.

Instead, she had come here, alone.

She had _known_ the Stynes were after her.

He knew that she could feel the growing strength of the Mark of Cain in him. The way he craved killing these days. It was no longer just part of the job; it was an end in itself, that hunger. The rage. The way, when he had fought Bad Charlie, the rage had risen in him to the point where he had kept whaling on her, beating his fists into her after she was downed, over and over and over again. It simmered through his veins, just barely controllable, keeping him on edge, ever-ready to snap. She felt it.

He had seen the worried love in her eyes when she thought he wasn't looking. Hell, he had felt her fear for him like a fucking anchor weighing him down.

Grounding him.

Keeping him human.

Charlie and Sam and Cas, doing everything they could, reining him in, subtly discouraging him from going out on jobs, trying to find ways to siphon off the endless, bubbling bloodthirst.

Sam...he was practically born to the life. Dad had groomed him for murder, revenge; this life was all he knew.

Cas? A warrior angel, who had spent eons fighting at God's - or the archangels' - command.

He would mourn them, deeply, miserably, feel like his world had a gaping hole that could never be filled, if they died (and _stayed_ dead). But he would never feel like they had been scammed, cheated of their lives, because...well, this _was_ their lives.

Charlie, though...

She had _known_ the Stynes were after her, dammit!

She'd laugh at his protectiveness, argue with him, claim she was a full-grown woman who came into the Hunting life with her eyes wide open. But underneath it all, she was an innocent, a wide-eyed, wondering innocent yearning for magic and quests and the good fight against evil. And they had dragged her into the world beneath the world, the shadowy, fear-filled, adrenaline-pumping world of the supernatural.

She'd have said she walked into it, knew what she was getting into.

She didn't.

She'd had no idea.

In the end, she had run off to another of the cheap, shady, crappy motels that were his and Sam's life. Hidden away from them all while she pounded away at breaking the code. Alone. Unprotected.

For him.

She did it for him.

The Stynes had found her here. Killed her.

He growled, his hands balled into fists at his side, and he deliberately let the bloodthirst rise, the anger, the need for violence. He'd fought it for so very long, shoved it down, angry at himself when it slipped loose. Like the night he'd slaughtered Randy and his "buddies" after they tried to use Claire as a bargaining chip between themselves. Or when he beat Bad Charlie to a pulp, even knowing that when they put Charlie back together again, every single bruise, break, drop of blood felt by Bad Charlie would be felt by her.

He'd felt ashamed when he let it rise up, before.

Not anymore.

Not now.

He stood in the doorway of the sleazy, dirty bathroom and let the scene soak in. Dark red curls, dark red blood, both shining in the dim light streaming in the window. Charlie, the little sister they'd never had, pale with death, crumpled in the bathtub. Legs slung over the rim. Arms flung every which way. Head slumped over. Blood. Blood everywhere. Her tablet, smashed on the edge of the sink. Her knife, _their_ blood on it - she had fought them, yes!

But in the end, here she was, her bright light, her joy and intelligence and enthusiasm, extinguished, gone, put out, cut out by those scum-sucking SOBs.

Because she had gone looking for that damned book. To fix _him_.

Because she had stolen that damned book from them. To find a spell to remove the Mark of Cain. For _him_.

Because she had loved him.

His fault.

His own fucking fault.

He felt the Mark throbbing on his arm, pulsing through his blood, singing its unending thirst for blood, for violence, for killing.

This time, he didn't push it down.

This time, he didn't hate it, despise it, want it gone, hate that he had taken it on.

No. This time, he hugged it closer, crooned wordlessly to it, reassured it that, yes, there would be blood. He encouraged it, begged for it to grow, to send that thirst, that need, soaring through him, making his skin twitch, setting his teeth on edge. Making his world narrow down into a single, laser-like desire for blood.

Oh, he would feed it, this time.

Every. Single. Styne.

He would hunt them, gladly. He would find them, wherever they were. He would kill them, gladly, one after the other, like the slime that they were. He would revel in every single damned broken bone, gasp of pain, dying flicker of light in their eyes. He would give the Mark what it wanted, gladly. Oh, yes.

Because they had done this to her. A sordid, meaningless death in a smelly, sordid, down-at-the-heels motel. To Charlie. His little sister. Who he loved beyond thought. Who had loved him to her death.

For Charlie.


End file.
